Prompt: Written for prompt #44.
Summary: They thought they'd found solace in each other, the kind of respite only the desperate are grateful for.
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If he was a better liar, Danny Messer might say that he loved the city. The bright lights, big city refrain he's sure they've printed on t-shirts by now, and sold in stalls that dot Times Square like wayward pushpins. He smiles wryly to himself and takes another drag of his cigarette.
Flack had asked him once, when they were sitting on a beach in Coney Island, how he could stand the city, the shit they had to deal with everyday. Danny hadn't said anything; it would have been cruel to break the calm by muttering darkly about their jobs. But that's the truth, ain't it? He remembers drawing circles in the sand with his finger and keeping his gaze averted from Flack, those eyes, dark blue with intensity and a feeling he hadn't wanted to admit just yet, bored into him.
Danny thinks, you keep your silence and just -- just forget about it. Otherwise, it'll eat away at you. Oh, shit, how it'll eat away at you. Crime and lies braided itself tightly in coils under their city and lashed out sometimes at them.
He leaned against the railing of his balcony, gently shaking himself from aching memories. They thought they had found solace in each other, a kind of respite that only the desperate are grateful for. They were just victims of the city, he thinks, just as much as any dead body on any back alley was.
The night is hot, the kind of heat that curls, sultry and unpleasant about Danny's body. It's no replacement for Flack's soothing body heat, strong arms that circled his waist after work. The cigarette just a dying ember under his shoe. And it was a dying light, the kind that lit up countless buildings and seaside boardwalks and had extinguished slowly in Danny. Pity this great city, he thinks and turns to the dark apartment.